


That Butler, Schooled

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ciel just sits back and enjoys the show, Francis is a BAMF, Gen, Humor, Sass, Sebastian gets schooled, William (sorta) smiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:47:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8062285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: By some strange twist of fate, Francis Midford ends up meeting William T. Spears. (And then the butler and his master arrive…) Or: lessons in hairstyling and showing up your competitors.





	

The hour is late. The sky had already faded to a dark, bruised violet while midnight blue bleeds into the inky darkness, giving it a hint of vibrant possibility while silver stars and a pearl white moon hover atop this satin sheath. In a distinctly uncouth alleyway, with tarnished brickwork and oil stains, a tall, finely dressed woman stands with her shoulders back and stance firm. Her hair is pale gold, as if it’d been bled of color, while a silver rapier stained with crimson blood rests in her right hand. 

Francis Midford is unamused but polite while she addresses the looming, dark haired figure before her.

“I thank you for your assistance sir, though I must reiterate that this ignoble cretin was of no threat to me.” She walks two steps closer to observe the dead man’s frozen expression—his gaunt face and uneven yellow teeth. “An opium smuggler—and not a very good one by the looks of it.”

The gentleman is silent but he holds himself with decorum and quiet respectability. His suit is perfectly tailored and rather dignified looking despite the plain design; in fact, everything about him is neatly compartmentalized, as if he’d been put together by a machine instead of human hands. “Indeed.” He finally intones, voice smooth, stoic, and thoroughly unexpressive. “I had no wish to trouble you tonight, madam.”

“It’s marchioness.” Francis corrects on instinct. No matter how well dressed a person is, he cannot be thought of as a man until his manners match his outward polish. “Though I find myself outside the sphere of noble influence, I would ask that you pay heed to propriety all the same."  

“Of course.”

She discerns no notable change in his cool, upright posture or the arid, dry tone though his eyes—a cool, jewel toned emerald—widen just half a fraction. After a brief, reticent pause, he gives a faint sigh that Francis disapproves of.

“Speak up.” She commands, tapping the edge of her sword against the dead smuggler’s wrist. “I have better things to do than stand outside in a dark alleyway attempting conversation with a strange man of a most taciturn nature.”

Said man in question merely arches a brow at Francis’s forceful diction but he does not seem perturbed or, as she critically notes, bothered in any shape, way, or form. “Is this not where you depart and I take to the police?” 

“In most circumstances, yes.” Francis acquiesces. “But as we are in the Whitechapel district, I would prefer not to be responsible for any future organ sales on the black market.”

She is not subtle (rather domineering in fact) but William T. Spears, management division of the Grim Reaper Dispatch Association, respects her cool, level-headed approach. “I can assure you that I am not affiliated with such nefarious groups.” He pauses, remembering the volatility of human emotions. “But I suppose that statement is for naught.”

“I will agree with the latter part of your assessment.” Francis affirms. “This incident must reported, and though you are unaware of my status, I can assure you that come tomorrow, this incident will be catalogued and all traces of it swept away.”

“Are you so certain of your own prowess and that of others around you?”

“Most certainly not. But it is a better remedy than us standing here talking the night away.”

“Verbosity is not in my nature, marchioness, but I can assure you that the task of consequence is my speciality. Indeed,” William adjusts his glasses, “it is my profession.”

Francis, with her contemptuous disbelief and practiced disregard, observes him with asymmetric judgement. She does not know him and he is, at best, a lacuna of personality but something in Francis—a sixth sense or perhaps wisdom of character—decides that, for all his coldness and frigid solidarity, he is a man of his word and honor, a hard won rarity, is something this man will adhere to.

“Very well.” Francis agrees and, with one smooth stroke, wipes the half-dried blood of her almost attacker on his own vest before sheathing her fine silver blade. She stands with dignified grace and gives the man a faint nod of familiarity. “Sir.”

Yet before William can bid goodbye to this iron willed marchioness, he pauses as a shift ripples throughout the air. Something dark—and terribly inhuman—is approaching but before he can even give a sigh of exasperation, the collared dog and his master arrive on the scene, almost materializing out of the vacuous black shadows. 

“Aunt Francis?” The blue-haired boy inquires when the moonlight hits his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Glancing towards the jade eyed woman, William is mildly surprised by the familial revelation. The marchioness is an anomaly among women and perhaps humans in general—firm, just, and fierce in her sincerity, William rather admired her brusque, distantly polite answers.

The earl on the other hand was a tainted child who held himself in high regard and saw the world through a Hobbesian state of nature.

And the demon—

“Marchioness.” He bows, setting the child-earl down and giving her an audacious smirk unfit for servitude. 

William despises the demon a little more now.

“Ciel.” She addresses her nephew with a dignified nod, somewhat satisfied that he was at least properly dressed for such an outing before glancing towards his disheveled aide-de-camp. “Butler.” She acknowledges and he rises, expression disdainfully insouciant. Francis's eyes narrow.

“Stand up straight, shoulders back, hands by your side, and— _for goodness sake._ If you are going to be escorting my nephew around London then I must ask that you at least _attempt_ to appear presentable. You look like a common solider whose just disgraced a tavern girl.” Her voice is clear, sharp, and filled with the same sort of impatient authority William evokes when addressing his more rambunctious associates.

“My apologies, marchioness, for my less than—“ but before the butler can even finish his false apology, the marchioness has brushed past him and moved towards William.

Both the demon and his young master give an expression that is a mixture of shock and curiosity. Like a dog being thrown out a window, William muses with mild interest.

“ _This,_ ” she gestures towards William, “is how a gentleman ought to look. Honestly, you _must_ attempt to emulate this man if you are going to be walking around England with a Phantomhive by your side.”

Sebastian, incredulous and somewhat insulted, glances between his master’s aunt and the blank faced William T. Spears who now appears to be hiding the faintest trace of a smile on his usually downturned lips. It is the strangest, most indescribable feeling as he watches the marchioness, countenance stern and unrelenting, instruct him on the art of appearance by asking (or demanding) he take cues from a Reaper of the most banal and _boring_ sort.

“Yes, Sebastian," his master chimes in, "you must take greater care of that face.” Ciel offers sagely, standing behind him, poker face still in place, while his voice warbles with thinly suppressed laughter. “This, I believe, is the third time Aunt Francis has had to remind you.” 

The contract keeps Sebastian from engaging in violent protest. “Yes, young master.” He turns towards the two aloof and coldly disinterested persons before him. The demon doesn’t mind remaining subservient to the marchioness—it’s in the butler’s aesthetic to do so—but bowing to the likes of a _Reaper…_

“For goodness sake, if we wait for you to bow properly, we’ll be here until dawn and I've much better things to do.” Francis exclaims, turning towards William with a slight nod. “Sir.”

“William.” The green eyed man offers, still distant and cool though the gesture of his name is admiration enough. “William T. Spears.”

“Very well then. Mr. Spears, you may address me as Lady Midford. As for you two—“ she fixes both Ciel and Sebastian with a searing glare, “I expect _this_ to be remedied by morning.”

“Of course Aunt Francis.” Ciel returns easily, fixing his sapphire eye on the dead criminal before him. “This never happened.”

“And you,” she turns towards this Mr. William T. Spears once more, “I suppose you will also remain here until they are finished?”

"It is an unfortunate necessity."

A faint smirk appears on Francis’s lips. “Excellent. For while you’re here, do find a moment to instruct my nephew’s butler on the art of presentability. Gentlemen,” she pursues, regal as a queen, “I bid you goodnight.”

And, like the evening zephyr, the marchioness sweeps away, dark red skirts billowing behind her while William decides that, in spite of this evening’s bizarre turn of events, he does not actually mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: HAPPY 10 YEAR ANNIVERSARY KUROSHITSUJI! Thank you for creating this wonderful storyline, Yana Toboso!


End file.
